


Teen Wolf Tumblrfic

by illuminatedcities



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Character Study, Gen, Librarian!Derek, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pining, bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 13:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7893655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the teen wolf snippets I post at http://dont-mess-with-the-pancreas.tumblr.com/, ratings vary, mostly sterek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. librarian!Derek, human!AU

Before he goes in, Stiles takes a deep breath, adjusting the strap of his shoulder bag. Mental checklist: Clean shirt? Check. (It passed the sniffing test this morning before he put it on.) Teeth brushed recently? Check. A number of casual but appealing small talk prompts, written down on an index card in the pocket of his jeans? Check.

Stiles opens the door and walks up to the counter of the Beacon Hills community library, but before he can say something eloquent and interesting about _The Waste Land_ that he only spent forty-five minutes researching on the internet, the chair swivels around and Erica gives him the void, expressionless look of someone who has been bored out of their mind for the last few hours. 

“Wanna return something?”

Stiles clutches his shoulder bag. There’s _Howl_ in it, a Tom Robbins novel that gave Stiles reading whiplash, and a paperback version of _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_.

“I, uhm. Are you alone today?”

Erica snaps her bubblegum and rolls her eyes. “Derek is in the back, probably talking to some hardcover editions or fixing their spines or whatever.”

“Thanks,” Stiles says. He hurries past the counter and into the back of the library in an attempt to outrun his mortification, and promptly runs into a ladder that’s leaning against a bookshelf.

“Woah, careful there.”

Stiles looks up and nearly drops his bag. Derek looks down at him, all scruff and ridiculous, dark-rimmed nerd glasses and a perfect ass in too tight jeans. Jesus. Stiles instantly forgets every bit of information about every single book he ever read.

“Hey!” Stiles says. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

“Sure, the ladder in the middle of the room was a pretty obscure hint, I see why you didn’t put it together right away,” Derek says, climbing down.

When he turns around, Stiles gets a good look at his t-shirt. It reads _Librarians do it by the book._

“I wanted to return these,” Stiles says, digging in his bag for the books.

Derek gives him a blank look. “Check-in desk is over there,” he says.

“Allen Ginsberg was actually suspended in his sophomore year because he wrote obscenities in his dorm room window,” Stiles blurts out, because it is the only thing from his internet research spree that he can remember in a pinch.

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Okay,” he says.

Oh god, Stiles is going to have a heart attack and _die_ before he even gets his first kiss or anything.

“The thing is, I actually enjoy reading? I do, okay, even though my attention span is, well, not _amazing,_ so it takes me a while to get through all these even though it’s summer break and it’s not like I have other things to do, I mean, with Scott and Allison spending every day surgically attached to each other’s _faces_ – “

“Is there something I can help you with?” Derek asks.

Stiles is briefly tempted to whack himself over the head with the copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s crazy drugged road trip novel he is currently holding in his hands. “I have been checking out absurd amounts of books all summer because I figured at some point I would gather up the courage to actually talk to you about one of them,” Stiles says.

Derek gets a little wrinkle between his eyebrows when he makes his confused face. It’s adorable, and very distracting. “Why?” He asks, because Stiles’ life is secretly a wacky sitcom.

“Oh god, just ask him out, this is like watching a toddler drown face-down in the kiddie pool,” Erica says from behind the shelf, where she is roughly jamming a hardback edition of _Emma_ between a bunch of Stephen King novels.

Derek looks at Erica, then back at Stiles. “Are you _asking me out_?”

Stiles considers to whack _Derek_ over the head with the copy of Hunter S. Thompson’s crazy drugged road trip novel he is currently holding in his hands. “Dude, did you hear the part about me checking out more books to read despite having the same ability to focus as an over-caffeinated squirrel?”

“This is a _library,_ ” Derek says, a little desperate. “It’s for checking out books.”

“I read that one Steinbeck novel because I saw you page through it once, it had 560 pages and extremely tiny print and nothing at all happened,” Stiles complains.

“I don’t even like Steinbeck,” Derek says, and then: “Okay.”

“Okay what?” Stiles asks in a slightly hysterical voice. Apparently his whole brain is panicking.

“Okay I’ll go out with you,” Derek says, pushing his stupid glasses up his stupid nose in his stupidly pretty face. “You could have just asked.”

“Well, I’m fundamentally awkward and bad at social interaction,” Stiles says. He feels himself flush all the way to the tips of his ears. _Derek Hale, cute librarian, will go out with him._

“I gathered,” Derek says. “There were some pretty obscure hints.”

“Do you really talk to the books sometimes?” Stiles asks, because that opportunity is too good to pass up.

Derek makes a pained face.

“He totally does,” Erica calls from the check-in desk, followed by the snapping noise of her gum.

Stiles almost manages not to grin at all.


	2. maybe the secret is to make yourself invisible, lydia martin, g.

Hiding comes easily to her. Camouflage is a learned skill like any other, and just because hers includes the soft noises that a paper bag makes dangling from her wrist, yellow and blue and green fabric folded neatly with the labels still attached, it doesn’t mean that it’s not _work_.

Lydia didn’t watch all these hours of YouTube videos on the perfect liquid line and how to find the blush that matches your skin tone because she was bored, you know. The trick is to make it look effortless, like there is no pain involved at all. The trick is to rest your hand on your cheek while you’re drawing the line to keep it steady.

_A pretty girl_ , people say, in that tone of voice that means _Oh darling, you could have been so much more._

There’s chalk on her hands from writing equations on the board and that is easy, too, numbers and formulas and logic. The trick is to sit down after like it was nothing, like you took a guess, like you didn’t stare at the page and write out number after number the night before until your eyes hurt. The trick is that you can’t let them know that you care about this, or anything. Caring only makes you vulnerable, and Beacon Hills is catnip to monsters anyway, so you should take your heart and turn it into iron before somebody breaks it apart.

(The trick is that there is pain involved in everything. Grow the fuck up.)

Lydia doesn’t talk about what happened to her. Maybe if she only focuses on other things, spring sales and coconut conditioner and soap operas and hallway gossip, the darkness will be too bored to bother her. Teenage girls are vapid and shallow and dumb, anyway. The darkness must know this.

It takes skill to hide while walking down a school corridor in a cute skirt and high heels, brand new handbag slung over your shoulder. They never tell you why the pretty girls in the fairy tales are always the victims, never the wolves.

Sometimes, she wonders why Peter Hale chose her, why he cracked her open and poured that darkness inside of her. The trick is to pretend that it was accidental, that she was just a girl in the wrong place at the wrong time. Sometimes, if she tells herself that, she almost believes it.

(The truth is, of course, that the darkness was inside of her the whole time, and all Peter Hale did was to make it spill out through the cracks.)

The truth is, there’s no such thing as _just a girl._

In the movies, the popular girls are never smart, and the smart girls are never popular. The popular girls are never kind, either, all identical blond ponytails and bubblegum-lipgloss smiles, vanity in a cheerleading outfit.

Clearly, Lydia’s life is not the plot of a movie. In movies, the monsters don’t _win._


	3. slow it down, derek/stiles, bottom!derek, light bondage, explicit.

They both know that the way Stiles’ belt is looped around Derek’s wrists is decorative at best; you can’t restrain a werewolf by tying him to the headboard with a strip of leather. There are chains needed for that, heavy metal cuffs and the sizzling electricity of a car battery, wolfsbane or outright magic.

Of course, Stiles isn’t going for immobilization, or captivity. Derek is in his bed by choice, a willing surrender. When Stiles pushed his arms over his head and tied them, Derek _smiled._

If anything, the knowledge that Derek could free himself any second makes it even better. It means that all that’s keeping him still beneath Stiles’ hands and mouth is his will, a deliberate choice to give himself over.

Usually, Stiles is a big fan of _faster_ and _more_ and _nownownow_ , but today he takes his time. It would be a waste not to, when he has the angles and planes of Derek’s body spread out in front of him like a landscape waiting to be discovered. Stiles keeps extensive notes in his head, a lab book of tactile experiments. Brushing his lips over the side of Derek’s throat above his jugular gets him a short exhale of air, while flicking his tongue against a sensitive nipple is making Derek squirm, delightfully aroused beneath Stiles’ body.

Derek never asks him to go faster, to stop teasing, to finally get _down_ to it. It makes Stiles ache because Derek never asks for _anything,_ not even when he could. (There’s nothing Stiles can think of that he wouldn’t gladly give, and that is a whole different kind of ache.)

Stiles is becoming really good at reading nonverbal clues, but that doesn’t mean that he’s not vain about his work.

“Let me hear you,” Stiles says, and “What about this, does this feel good?”

Sometimes Derek sighs, or nods, quickly, like he can’t force the words out of his throat. Sometimes he says _Stiles_ , or _yes_ , or, worst of all, _Don’t stop,_ like Stiles _would,_ like there might be a universe in which he could walk away from this.

It was disorienting at first, to watch Derek retreat into himself like this, no trace of sarcasm left like Stiles had stripped his defenses right off him along with the trail of clothes leading from the door to the side of the bed. It makes Stiles feels protective towards him, a fierce emotion settling in his guts like a slow-burning fire. He admires the courage it must take to present your vulnerabilities to someone when you still remember the way it felt to have the blade of a knife pressed into them. It makes him wonder if he could do the same thing, in Derek’s place, or if the panic would make his throat close up and his heart beat out of his chest.

Stiles wraps his hand around Derek’s cock and Derek arches into the touch with a soft, desperate noise. Stiles mouths at Derek’s hipbone, lets his thumb circle the head of his cock on every upstroke until Derek is panting.

“Come here,” Derek says, and “ _please_ ”, his voice raw like a wound, and Stiles climbs up his body, presses his mouth against Derek’s neck, never stops touching him.

Derek’s hands clench and unclench in the restraints, but the line of his shoulders is relaxed, like he is glad for something to anchor him.

He doesn’t make a noise when he comes but that’s alright, Stiles can read the way Derek’s head tips back and the stop and stutter in his breath just fine.


End file.
